F4I

"Mon dieu, how does he live like this!?" He cringes at the way his few beautiful French words sound as they're offered in a rough voice. He's regrets teasing Arthur for his French in the past, if only because he could see it wasn't entirely his fault. Francis turns off the stove, moves the frying pan off the glowing scarlet element and sidles, as slow as a sloth, to the kitchen table. He collapses into his usual seat. He morbidly stares at the crepe batter he'd been intending to cook, as it sits on the sink. The batter looks pleasant; it's smooth, creamy and is the most perfect colour. He's made it as he always has. Then his emerald eyes

He remembered leaving a (somewhat) peaceful meeting. England, America and France had been arguing about whatever they could find (but that was normal; that’s been going on for as long as Latvia could remember). Canada had seemed content watching, his lips curled up in a sweet smile as France threw his tea cup at England, who’d thrown his saucer back and managed to hit America instead (Latvia wondered if France had had a lot of practice dodging crockery throughout the years; he was very good). China, Japan and Korea had huddled together, discussing things that Latvia couldn’t hear from his place on the other side of the round